


Let Me Rest, So I May Be At Peace

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-03-11
Updated: 2007-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hasn't been told the "whole" truth about his little brother, Sam...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season 1 ; Episode placement somewhere after "Croatoan / Hunter"... when Sam learns about his penchant for the "dark side".

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 **_PROLOGUE -_ **

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 **Winchester Rule #15 :**   ** _Never Leave Your Man Alone... Well, Unless You ARE Alone..._**

 **_Lake Wyncomca, Michigan_ **

 

Dean leaned against the Impala's dusty black paint job, arms crossed in authority as leader of this pack. His face a stern mask of maturity and grace. He averted his green eyes, intermittently biting the inside of his cheeks. So hard, he wondered if he'd draw blood. His teeth even creaked, upper and lower enamel sliding together. He glanced sidelong at his younger brother, needing him to agree in this one instance.

"Do it."

Sam stood stiff, feet planted, ram-rod straight. He wasn't going to budge for no one, not even his older brother. His "boss", if this was his daytime/nighttime "job". Strange how _stern_ sounded almost like _"Nanny, nanny boo boo. I'm older than you. So listen up, punk!"_. Not a Dirty Harry "punk", but a jealous older sibling "punk". The one that sat on you and dangled spit over your head, taunting you with the moist, stringy glob. Sam had enough of being pushed around, dragged here and there, not being told much of anything concrete. He stood his ground, his jaw tight and the muscles clenching in his right cheek.

"No!"

Dean had his flashlight and the rock-salt shotgun in his hands, arms criss-crossed over his lower chest, at his sides. He could hear the _scrape-scrape_ of gun metal on lacquered automotive metal. He stopped the jittery motion of petulance. _Do NOT ruin The Car, Dean!_ His younger brother tended to work on every open nerve ending along his lithe body. If he stayed mad long enough, his entire meaning for concentrating would stop. And things could go wrong, people would get hurt and the Impala might get scratched unnecessarily. He rolled his head around, neck creaking, like a prize-fighter in the ring.

"Sammy, I'm not..."

Sam tightened his whipcord frame, like a rubberband pulled taut. Dammit, Dean HAD to play the _"Awww, jeezus, Sammy"_ card. Sam had his own flashlight and gun, but his was a long double-barrel shotgun, with real bullets. He was annoyed enough to brag he could actually kill something, instead of delaying the inexplicable creature from a flaming of his already-buried bones. He held out his right hand, flashlight in kung-fu grip mode. He was attempting to keep Dean from advancing on him. As long as Dean didn't touch him, Sam could dodge to safety and help out, the way he wanted. He didn't like Dean deciding to do this hunt alone. No matter what some stupid old - _really, really, really old_ \- yellow-eyed demon had told their father.

"No, Dean!"

Dean hopped onto the hood, rolling his forearm to stare at his wristwatch. 7:30pm - beginning of The Witching Hours. Christ! Why did time always speed up, then slow down all of a sudden? Took forever to drive across a neverending plateau of nothingness. Well, cows... maybe some patches of wildflowers, a few stretches of stinky, fertilized crops and barren nothingness to get to Lake Wyncomca. Then they arrived and... _WHAM! tickety-tock Bad Mama-Jama... time to meet your fucking Maker!_ Dean was only going to tell Sam to wait in the car, while he took care of The Hunt. Maybe, eventually, if they actually found the creature, he'd invite the BabyBro on The Kill. But right now, Sam was stuck with the conciliation prize. Making sure the Impala wasn't stolen... or dented... or scratched.

Anyone with a brain, who grew up in the Ferris Bueller Era, knew you never left a cool, antique car unattended. Valet service or not.

"Hey... I got this..."

Sam saw _The Look_. He'd know _The Look_ from ten miles away. More than simply _The Look_... _The Face_ that had _The Eyebrows_ and _The Frown Lines_ and _The Wide Greenish/Hazel Eyes_ that made him stand up straight and salute. Dad had _The Look_ , too. _Wide Brown Eyes_ that never brightened, except when looking at Dean. And him, maybe. When they weren't at one anothers' throats. Dean often reminded him of Dad, which was why Sam liked to fight him. Dean gave in easier, Dad simply... stared more. _The Look_ becoming dead, blank and narrow. Sam could almost see the fire blazing in the center of those brown irises. The fire that had claimed their mother at a young age. That same fire burned in his own eyes now, since Jess' similar demise. Sam had his Dad's sad eyes, though blue-green in nature. Mirrors reflected his pain. Mirrors told him truth even when his own conscious lied to him. And when Dean wouldn't fess up to reality. Dad would have stood toe to toe with him for this much reluctance to obey.

"No!"

Dean bowed his head, chin to his chest. Some days... he was so tired, willing to give in. _Oh, alright... you got me good THIS time, Casper! See ya!_ Turn in his fake badge of Supernatural Sheriff of Weird-n-Wacky County and retire. No pension, of course... and no THANKS... ever. Maybe he'd go back and visit Cassie, see if they could... _nah_. That ship had sailed a dozen missed opportunities ago. Or maybe... he'd venture somewhere sunny, where he didn't have to wear three layers of clothes to walk upright and not piss icicles. He could drink fruity cocktails, take up surfing, let his hair go long and white blond, swim with dolphins, learn to say "dude" in twenty different ways and eventually marry a rich socialite who'd take care of him and have a live-in French or Spanish maid who'd cook him pancakes every other day. No... wait... _waffles_...

"Sam..."

Sam heard... nothing. And why he heard nothing was because he couldn't knock this feeling that Dean wasn't being truly honest with him. A few days ago he'd broken out with the _"Sam, you're gonna go Darth Vader in this life."_ and Sam couldn't believe anything else that had come out of Dean's mouth. Even when he watched the lips move, like now. So he simply gave Dean his own... _Look_ , but more of a _Glare_. He knew the power he had. Dean was a sucker for his cold, hardcore bad-ass _glare_. Dean hated knowing he could piss a sweetheart like Sam off.

 _"What did I DO, Sammy?"_

 _"Well, for one, Dean... you're not a demon Hellspawn prodigy."_

"..."

Dean hated silence more than words. Silence meant... _Danger Ahead. Road Block For Fifty Miles. Take Detour That Will Get You Lost And Home By Tomorrow._ Dad had that particular look that Sam could muster. Hard to believe a teddy bear like Sammy Winchester could conjure up _"I'm a bad-ass dangerous motherf**ker to know."_ and carry the moniker like it was well-deserved. Maybe the shotgun made him look sinister and deadly, 'cause that face screamed "adopt me/hug me/love me". Dean slid off the Impala's front wheel well, landing on his scuffed boots. He snapped two fingers in front of Sam's face. Never budged once.

 **"SAM!"**

Sam could hear... something. Repressed memory or maybe another "vision".

Now that would be lovely and convenient since the day was getting darker. Late afternoon slipping into night. They didn't know what the hell they were walking into. _Screw the flashlights... I have telekinesis powers!_

The noise was faint, not recognizable as usual for evening hours. Birds?! Lovebirds? Robins? Cardinals? Crows? Ravens? Sparrows? Oh... how very Stephen King. Death by Sparrows.

"..."

Dean had reached a last nerve. God knows, if anyone could reach the damn things Sam would. Shotgun and flashlight in hand, he walked over to latch onto Sam's muscular arms. _Shakey-shakey, wakey-wakey!_ And... nothing. Damn, this was a good glare. Dean thought about splitting now, ditching while Sam looked catatonic. But what he feared most was this wasn't BadAssSam, but StealthSam. Who had cunning cat-like pouncing ability. Who could follow his long lost trail on one single scent, sound or smell alone. Sam was a Winchester. No matter what those demon naysayers spewed with their evil, demon-y venom.

 **"SAMMY!"**

Sam got him to react like Dad. Face to face. Actually nose to nose, green eyes wide with fright. _No... wait, that wasn't like Dad at all._ He blinked, licking his top lip. He pushed Dean backward, making him falter on his feet. Then he kindly reached out to steady him with a mere grip of an elbow. Sometimes Sam's own strength stunned even him. He'd never been athletic. Gangly and reed thin as a teen, often tripping over his own shoelaces. Dean would always bend down to tie them, then help him back up. Sam never liked trailing behind Dean on those demon/ghost hunts. Dean made him feel weaker, less worthy of being a member of The Winchester family. While other kids were on family vacations to Disneyland, the Winchesters men went camping. Every. Year. In the Evil-Lurks-Here woods. All three men huddled in an old Army tent, rolled in seen-better-days sleeping bags and cuddled around one another for warmth when the fires went out. Slumbering during the day, eating out of cans near a firepit and killing creatures that went bump in the night. Sam's toy was the rock-salt shotgun, which was why he was so good at his aim. _Practice, practice, practice, Sammy._ He almost sang his disobedience, twisting his head at each declaration.

"No... No. No. No. **NO!** "

That final "No" almost killed Dean's wall of calm. There was a moment he often caught himself hanging over the "fence" in his brain, whipping his emotions into shape, taming them. The moment between anger and affection. Sam didn't know... A LOT. He had only been a baby. He had no memory of their mother or her death, even though his six-month old innocent eyes gazed up at her and his miniature human voice cooed for her touch, then cried at the blaze that engulfed her body above him. Sam would never know the gruesome slaying of his own parent. How Mary Winchester's life blood dripped on her baby son's doe-soft, pale skin to mark him as special.

Dean felt pretty damn special, too. And yet someone had deemed Sam as THE Winchester to be chosen. Not John. Not Dean. Not even the cousin no one knew about that could exist if family ever talked to them again. Dean felt... guilt, mostly a mix of pain and love. Loyal to the baby who watched a mother burn to death, as Dean looked into the eyes of the man he'd become. _Fuck you! Take ME instead, you lame-ass cocksuc-!_ Not one hour went by, in any day of the week, that Dean didn't utter those words in his head. Glancing up at the sky, while knowing he should shift his eyes down below. He turned to face the open passenger side window, throwing in the flashlight and shotgun.

"Then I'm not going in."

Sam swiveled on the ball of his left foot and began pacing toward the porch. "Fine. I'll go in by myself." He didn't get very far before his hand was grabbed. Actually, the butt of the shotgun was tugged and Sam fell back. His quick reaction was to latch onto the shotgun, which brought him in reverse a few inches.

Dean caught him, tight about the waist, tapped a hip, then righted Sam on his feet. "No. You... stay here... with me." His arm went to encircle his BabyBro's neck, dangling down the boney shoulder. He made them rest on the Impala's body work. He took flashlight and shotgun from Sam, throwing them into the front passenger seat, as well. He patted his palm flat on Sam's chest, over three layers of casual Gap wear and a thick, navy blue, khaki jacket. "Let's make them come out to us."

 _Man, how ingenious was this theory?! All those years of going TO the demon or ghost. Why not just wait on THEM for a change?_

Sam worked his body from under his brother's arm, standing in a flourish of energy. He was ready. He was pumped. _Let's Get The Party Started, Bro!_ He was here, he might as well participate. "Why?! Another one of your Winchester Rules?!" He moved to stick his head through the open window, but Dean... was quicker.

Dean blocked the window with his body, crossing his arms. "No. 'Cause I'm older and prettier. And what I say goes..." _God, did that sound lame or what?_

"Ha!" Sam came nose to nose with Dean, sprouting the words to fake laughter. **"HA-HA...!"** And for one last good measure... **"HA!"**

Dean thought he looked cute, passably adorable. Why didn't chicks dig him more? Oh wait... 'cause the Dead Girl was still in Sam's head and heart. Christ! Just what Sam needed, another knife stabbed in his back. Not like the poor guy didn't have enough on his shoulders. Having to watch his own girlfriend die in the same manner as his mother. Well, Dean really had nothing to compare the tragedy to, so he kept mum. Always on the outside looking in, begging for scraps Dad would give him. **Sam this, Sam that**... _Sam's not here, Dean is, Dad. Don't forget who_ ** _I_** _am._ "Sam... please..." He wandered close, chest to chest with Sam, clutching at his shoulders, shaking slightly. "... you must... chill."

Sam threw his hands up in exhaustion. "No... I can't." Then he turned and was gone. But then he came back as fast as he'd left, holding his palm out. "Picks."

Dean chuckled deeply, smirking. "I don't carry spares, dude. Get 'em yourself." He chucked his thumb over his shoulder. "Trunk."

"Keys." Sam's hand was still open for begging.

A noise like a howling sounded. The baying of a male animal to female, looking to prowl and possibly copulate in the bushes. Or... not...

Both men stood still and keen eyes wandered. Unlike normal folk wandering a lonely stretch of dirt road, who'd reference those noises to horror flicks of the Freddy/Jason variety, Dean and Sam could actually take a real situation and earmark the moment.

 _Ah-Ha_... **Mystery Creature of This Week is**... ( ** _drum roll please_** )...

"Hear that?" Sam's eyes squinted, glancing off into the small forest behind the dilapidated home. He swore he could see the shift of leaves and branches, depicting the exact location of said Mystery Creature #342.

"No." Dean let his gaze wander elsewhere. Not near the house or the junked property surrounding, but across the way. There was an even larger wooded area to be fearful of. When his eyes returned to meet Sam's, he realized he'd messed around too much.

"You don't?" Sam thought maybe he'd screwed up, reacted to something that wasn't there.

"Nah, I do." Dean cracked himself up, rubbing down his chest, under his jacket. "I'm only yankin' yur chain." _What a time to joke, huh?_

Sam pursed his lips tight, then advanced on Dean with hand held out. "Gimme your picks." He knew where Dean hid them. All he'd have to do was tickle in the right area or punch him out, stone cold.

"No." Dean pouted, like the child he still managed to be sometimes. He held his arms across his chest, protecting his jacket's inside pockets.

"Oh, grow up." Sam wiggled his fingers, taunting Dean with the possibility of making him pee his jeans. "I can do this without you, too, Dean."

"No." Dean's arms did loosen, but he took out the lock picks himself. "You can't." He wasn't being presumptuous or heavy-handed, he honestly knew neither of them could do this gig alone. He heard a faint sound of hinges, the noise growing louder as the paneling opened. His hazel eyes widened as he peered over Sam's tall frame, between a wispy curl of dark-brown hair and the upturned jacket collar. "Dude... the door's open." He hit Sam on the shoulder to turn around and look. "... check that freaky shit out..."

"Uhm..." Sam asked, his voice taking on an edge of dismay. "... is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

The brothers had the same idea. Going for their guns and flashlights.

~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~

 _25 minutes... later..._

 **"DEAN!?"**

 **"SAM-MEE!?!?"**

They yelled for one another, but a thick film of fog blocked their views. Even the sounds of their voices were muffled.

 **"SAM! Stay still! I'm coming toward you!"**

 **"DEAN! I'm staying right where I am! Come to me!"**

~&~

 _25 minutes... before..._

They had searched the house, found nothing. Not even an explanation for the door opening on its own. Often times, if the house was old enough, the framework settled into the ground, sinking an inch every year. The door could have moved with the house. And... the weather was gradually becoming windy. The ground wasn't the healthiest, given all the dead brown grass and weeds. And the house looked poorly structured, resembling plank board rather than real wood.

Dean had backed out of the house first, stepping off the back porch onto what could only be assumed as the backyard. He drifted crossways along the dry grass and dirt mounds, flashlight stretched out from his right hand, left arm crossed over, rock-salt shotgun at the ready. Damn... what he wouldn't give for a AK-47 just to mow these mothers down in one fell swoop.

Rock salt would simply knock them unconscious for a few minutes, weigh them incapacitated until they could find the consecrated bones.

Sam bounced against the broken screen door. "Dean?" He hadn't realized how behind he'd gotten. When he glanced over his shoulder, Dean wasn't in his eyesight. He had been a few minutes ago. "Dean?!" He didn't bother taking the three steps down to the ground, he simply jumped. He was in a similar stance like his brother. Sam had his shotgun aimed, from his left hand, while his right arm stretched underneath the shotgun metal, holding the flashlight.

Double barrels were mighty fine in the dark. Especially when you had no idea who or what you were up against.

 _You know what would be real good right about now? A Molotove Cocktail. One bottle would ignite this whole yard and house. Evilness gone... whoosh!..._

Sam laughed in spite of the danger lurking in the shadows.

Dean twisted his head around, not liking this one bit. Had that been Sam? Sounded like his laughter. Shit... "Sam!" He reached the woods, skimming the edge, not willing to go in now, all alone. He had Sam with him, time to buck up and spread the wealth. "Sammy?!"

As Dean rounded the same yard trim as the previous six times, little did he realize his brother was behind him, swishing the same motion in the opposite direction. Like they were stuck in different time zones, barely five minutes of change to each and every action.

Sam felt the faint breeze to his neck, blowing through his upswept hair. The sensation sent chills down his spine. Moments like this, trapped and alone, even though he knew Dean was somewhere... sometimes he simply wanted to sit down on his ass and pout, stomp his foot and whine. Someone wasn't playing fair. So he stopped, shotgun at his side, flashlight moving about and opened his mouth...

 **"DEAN!?"**

Dean perked his head up. He heard that, coming from within the woods. _How the H-E-Double L-Hockey Sticks had Sammy gotten ahead of him?_

 **"SAM-MEE!?!?"** _Dammit..._

Sam picked up the bellow of his name on a tuft of air. Strange, the sound didn't come from the woods at all. Almost seemed like Dean was standing next to the Impala. He rounded the side of the house, catching a distant view of the car, with no sign of Dean. He sighed, shaking his head, shotgun pointed outward.

Someone was playing one mean nasty trick on him. And, by golly, it wasn't Dean.

 **"DEAN! I'm staying right where I am! Come to me!"** Sam did exactly what he said he'd do, flashlight searching, gun barrel aimed.

Dean took further steps into the woods, knocking through brittle branches and tangling vines. He could hear Sam talking, but the tone was faint, unable to be deciphered as true words. Had Sam fallen into some pit? Was he still in the house? He quickly stood, gun barrel pointed toward the rear wall of the square, box-like structure.

 **"SAM! Stay still! I'm coming toward you!"** Dean grew frantic, but content. If Sam was trapped in the house, at least he knew where he was. Not lost in the woods like he thought.

As Dean inched closer, head swaying every which way... he heard a faint _click-click_ like the cocking of a shotgun. Sam could be confronting the creature or a loose, restless spirit. He should...

... in under five seconds of talking in his head, the house exploded in one huge ball of fire.

 _Sammy... no..._

Dean was blown backward, landing on his ass, curled into a fetal position. Flashlight thrown two feet from his hand, cylinder cracking on a thin tree trunk. The rock-salt shotgun was stuck in his hold, searing his trigger finger hand. "Aughhh...!!" The metal was hot from the explosion, burning a semi-circle around his thumb and index finger. "... Sammy...!" He didn't give a shit about who or what they were after now. Not until he knew Sam was alright.

As fast as the fire ignited, burned and built, the flames simmered quicker, toning down to a blue-hued lull. The walls of the house falling like thin playing cards. Some rooms of the one floor dwelling were visible, but there was almost nothing left. Nothing but broken, cracked, smoking shards of cheap plank board.

Worst of all, no sign of Sam.

Dean moved, feeling sharp pains in his chest, but lower than his heart. He crawled, gripping the dry grass, unsure of what had actually happened. "Sammy... s-s-sam... m-m-my..." He could barely get the name out as his eyes grew unfocused, perspiration from the intense blast of heat dripped from his hairline, down his brow and stung his eyes blind.

 _Oh, Jesus... no... no... no... no..._ Dean crawl-walked on his arms, using his elbows to trudge him further toward the sound of crackling fire and the heavy stench of smoke.

Dean swore to... he promised Dad. Sammy would be safe with him.

 _A promise is a promise is a..._

"... another deal to be made..." The deep, resonating voice spoke above Dean's prone form, laying facedown in the dirt.

Dean wondered how anyone had heard him say those words. They had been IN his head.

The shadowy form bent to one knee, reaching out to grab the back of Dean's head, pulling him by the roots of his shorn hair. "You're mine now... to play with at my will..."

"Who...? What..." Dean strangled the words out, debris all over him and ashes covering his face, blood seeping from tiny puncture wounds. He was thrown roughly backward, from being picked up by his injured shoulder and dropped to the ground, like a body slam.

"Welcome to MY world, Dean Winchester."

Dean furrowed his brow, staring up at the shape hovering over him. "... Dad...?" He was out like a light in two seconds, uttering one last plea. "... s-s-sammy..."

 **~*~*~*~*~*~*~...TBC...~*~*~*~*~*~*~**


	2. Chapter 2

~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~

 **CHAPTER ONE -**

~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~

 **Winchester Rule #4 :**    ** _Anything That Can Be Easily Explained... Is A Lie._**

 **  
_BLUEBERRY HILL Inn - Room 234_   
**

 

Sam was livid. No, scratch that... he was flabbergasted and outraged. He'd intentionally kept himself awake to chew Dean out for ditching him. He waited an hour at that piece of shit house before he realized that Dean wasn't coming back for him.

Only a three mile return trek to the motel. Sam wasn't upset about the "walking" prospect, in fact he needed the exercise. He and Jess used to run around Stanford campus in the early mornings. Dean got his main form of physical activity from chasing demons, working on the Impala and pulling itchy trigger fingers. It's amazing how Dean's ass hadn't permanently adhered to the driver's seat of the Impala with as much grease and artery-clogging fast food he ate.

No, what hurt was the principal of leaving him, stranded. No ride, no reason, no rational idea of what the hell had possessed Dean Winchester to bail on a brother he'd sworn to protect with his life, until the end. Dean better BE dead or dying, for Sam to even... _no, uh-nah_... that thought was too much to take. All the most feasible explanations ended up with his fist finding Dean's face, possibly clocking him on that square jaw or on the perfect nose.

He wiped at his eyes, heels digging in to stop the throbbing pains threatening to climb into his brain. Then he locked them behind his head as he drew the sheets up his body. He'd been seriously thinking about shutting down for the night. The time wasn't even remotely close to midnight, but it had been a long day. Long hours spent driving here, after researching all night of what they might be up against.

An anonymous tip. Yeah, like a Mystic Hotline or something. Left a message on Dean's phone. Dad's old voice mail prompt tended to make the "crazies" flock in droves.

 _"This is John Winchester... I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean, at... 866-907-3325..."_

Sam should know better than to try to cut Dean any slack. Their life was full of complicated answers. These days they had even more questions than they'd ever had before. They knew how to work on theory, but half the time the ideas were mostly based on personal opinion and perceptions. From past experiences, Dean and Sam never saw eye to eye on much. Only learning how right the other was upon their own mishaps and mistakes the longer they stayed together.

Except they always agreed on how to kill the damn evil beings and make them be gone forever.

Winchesters always followed through. Never letting the dead walk away, without finding a way back. Even when times came close to Armageddon, they still stuck the situation out. Then on to the next one. A new town, a new motel, new people and new problems. Always more questions, though.

 _Was it all just bullshit? One infinitesimal running joke. So NOT funny..._

And just when Sam's feelings were merging from aggravated frustration to mild irritation and into genuine worry... someone banged on the door.

He startled up on the mattress, clutching the sheets to his chest like a frightened virgin. Only because he wasn't expecting anyone and Dean would never knock on the door. He had a key. Sam knew that, because he had to practically beg the motel manager he'd donate a vital organ and some blood to come let him into the room. Luckily, for Sam, his face was not only sincere in its thoughtfulness, even when he had to feign stupidity or forgetfulness, he had a killer smile that made even men's hearts flutter unknowingly.

But the banging wasn't like a Knock-Knock-bang, more like a Oops-I-Tripped-And-Hit-Your-Door-bang.

"Hold on!" Sam slid out of bed, sitting on the side to put his t-shirt back on. He had been under the cotton shirt when the normal time was up for another knock, so he called out. "I'm comin'! I'm there... here...!!" As he met t-shirt hem to denim waist, his hand gripped the door knob, his other hand undid the chain. Once he tugged on the paneling, an exhale of room air, from hot to cold, passed through him. Sam had his head raised to greet the rude intruder on his selfish pity-party. There wasn't a face to talk with, but there was a warm body crumbling at his bare feet.

"... sorry... I tried... the door... lock's broken..." An arm raised stiffly, single room key dangling from a curled index finger. "Gotta key... I didn-..."

Sam stared down in confusion at his older brother, acting like he didn't belong here. "Jesus, Dean..." He spread his hands wide to see how awful Dean looked, as if he'd been dragged behind a moving vehicle, rolled a few times in the mud and fell into a sewage ditch. Then run over a few times, forward and in reverse.

Dean tilted his head awkwardly from floor level, in curiosity. "... Sam—my...?" There was a twinge of doubt in his voice, like he was still in Hell. Or wherever he'd been for the last few hours.

The way Dean proclaimed his name made Sam bend to his knees. He took the most tender care of placing the spiked, dirty-brown head on his lap, letting the weight rest heavy on his thighs. Every time he touched Dean, with the barest of fingertips, he winced or sucked in a quick breath, antsy of fingers approaching. Sam had no idea what body parts were safe to touch. Dean certainly looked in terrible agony and pain, but not close enough to death. Thank God.

Dean simply stared at his younger brother, in wide-eye wonder and pleasure. He felt like crying, but that was a pussy thing to do. Instead, he laughed a lot, giving himself hiccups and making himself look certifiably insane. He couldn't believe this was happening. Sam was... ALIVE? He reached up with one good arm to lock about Sam's neck, pulling the face down to meet his jaw. It was a foolish way to hug and the action looked even more ridiculous as Dean performed for the entire motel parking lot, outside.

Sam knew. He knew if Dean had any idea what he looked like he'd stop doing the move, immediately. He got up on one knee, offsetting Dean's head and the grip he had on Sam's nape. "Can you stand?"

"On my feet?" Dean was still cold, shivering under his layers of clothes. Could be the pain surfacing, sending his body into shock.

Sam bit his bottom lip, hiding a smirk. "I can move things with my demonic superpowers, but I haven't tried levitation, yet."

Dean shook a parental index finger in the air. "Don't knock it, 'til ya tried it, Copperfield."

"So... CAN you?"

"Stand? Or levitate?"

Sam purposefully blew air out of his nostrils. "Dean..."

Dean knew there was to be no more silliness, but why did he feel like laughing hysterically? Oh, yeah... because for the last few hours he'd thought Sammy was a goner. Pushing up daisies. Kissing that Big Guy up in the sky... or the Red One down below. He was actually pretty stoked to see his brother, for once. Like Christmas had come early. Or an unexpected Birthday surprise. He tried to budge, only getting a few millimeters off the floor. "Uhm... no." He looked around the tacky carpet he lay on. "Not at this time."

Sam nodded his head, knowing exactly what to do next. He had this all figured out, if Dean would cooperate with him. He moved about the carpet to face Dean, back to the door and the cold air. He felt the chills and the goosebumps rise on his flesh. He hovered over Dean, wondering why his eyes were closed and he was smiling like the cat who ate the canary. Sam reached out to grab Dean, directly under his arm pits. He was about to attempt to lift him without causing any undue stress or strain. He thought to be kind, tender, and ask first. "Is this okay?"

Dean was only relaxing in the warm presence of his BabyBro. Sam could do whatever he want-... Dean opened his eyes to stare directly into those everchanging pools of perpetual sadness and unconditional kindness, that tended to kill him dead. They looked like Dad staring back at him. Didn't take much for them to fill with moisture, which they were sort of doing now. "Oh... crap..." He moaned, averting his head in shame.

"What?" Sam didn't move, pausing in his actions, thinking he'd done something wrong.

"Just lift me in your arms, Romeo. Get me on my bed." Dean held up his hand to make his point. "Stress... MY bed... then close the fuckin' door. What... were you born in a barn?!" Dean covered emotions with filler comments. Things he thought a parent would say. Dad would have said them, had they been given a chance to have a normal life again. He wondered when he could use the "running with scissors" and "wear clean underwear" morally sage advice.

"Am I hurting you?" Sam tried to gauge Dean's facial expressions on how to carry him. Unfortunately, he turned to watch where his bare feet went in conjuction with Dean's mud-caked boots, losing sense of Dean. He only had words to go by.

"Yes." Dean nearly tumbled to the floor when Sam accidently released him, thinking he was closer to the floor than the high bed frame. "... ugh... you break my heart, Sammy... jus' like you always do..." This time Dean could turn around, gain balance on one knee and pull himself up onto the bed. If he wasn't so exhausted, finding every muscle completely useless.

Sam wrinkled his smooth brow, picking out twigs and dead leaves from Dean's hair. "Are you drunk?" He then pulled Dean forward, yanking off the dusty jacket. When Sam held the thick cotton to his chest, he couldn't mistake the "fire" smell, intensely embedded in the material. He threw the jacket onto a lone chair at the table.

"No." Dean pushed his back against the bed frame, swiveling his head to look over at Sam. "Why? Does that matter to you?"

Sam held out his hands, slapping them on his thighs and then rubbing them. "I dunno, Dean. You get pretty mopey and maudlin when you've had too much..."

Dean was highly offended, ticked off. **"I DO NOT!"** Somehow he became more awake, sort of. He seemed to have misplaced his coordination.

"Dean, you raid the mini-bar like you'll never see another five inch bottle again. You know, you can settle this by buying the much bigger bottles at an actual liquor store."

"Alright." Dean mumbled, attempting to lift himself by planting his hands, palms down, on the floor.

"... not to mention your intake in bars leaves you on a level of self-destruction that would rival any alcoho-..."

"Okay... Oprah! Intervention... Ovah! Hush!" Dean tried to bring up his hand to shush Sam quiet, then he roughly pushed Sam's face away. "I don't think I like you anymore." He was going to try lifting his body by his knuckles, hopefully getting better strength and traction. About the third time he fell, Dean sighed, shaking his head at his inability to explain what exactly was wrong with him. "Lend me some skin, dude."

Sam wasn't certain one hand clasped to Dean's would do. But he obliged, feeling satisfied that Dean had gotten some well-deserved justice for abandoning him. Still, he felt enormous guilt. He held out his right hand, placing the fingers in such a way to insist on Dean grasping the major portion of his hand, around his thumb and palm. As Sam tightened his grip, Dean lost strength, almost falling again to the floor. Thankfully Sam was more aware this time, his entire left arm moved to support Dean as they both slowly rose.

Dean fell back, while Sam pushed slightly against the muscular mid-torso. The bed was hard and Dean did not bounce. He groaned, rolling over onto his stomach. He was willing to curl up here and die. But he grappled for bed linen, pulling it all down, dragging his body up toward the headboard. He could sense something happening at his feet. Dean turned, slightly, peering through his arms.

Sam was working off one boot at a time. He tugged hard, hoping to not hurt Dean as he fell to sleep. After awhile, Dean had paused in all movement and he caught the hard green gaze intent on him. "What?"

"This is not necessary." Dean rich voice sounded more weak, then macho.

Sam was already taking off the other boot. "Why? You'd do this for me." He had a stake in this moment. Dean's body and clothes were filled with large amounts of evidence. He wasn't tired in the least now, since Dean fell on the door and lay at his feet. He almost wished he hadn't vowed Death to follow his brother around. Looks like it took a good chunk out of him. He even wondered if Dean had taken on another job, without him.

"I would?" Dean found that interesting to hear, which was true. He'd taken care of Sam when they were younger. Now, Sam didn't need him as much, obviously. Still nice to see the favors being dealt back to him, though he'd frown and make faces the whole time. He flipped on his back, undoing the buttons on his shirt slowly. He rose on his left elbow and gently slipped out of the checkered fabric. His joints were screaming with pains and aches. He should really head into the bathroom and... bathe... or shower. Right now he wanted blissful, undemon-filled sleep.

Sam picked up the boots, as a pair, walking them over to the chair where the smoke-drenched coat lay. As he turned to check on Dean, he started softly laughing, even though his heart had been racing with worry.

Dean was facedown, half on the stark white pillow, the other half on the mattress. His arms were stiffened behind his back, almost completely out of his shirt. The material tangled about his wrists. The cuffs... _darn things_ , they snagged on his watch and ring. Dean couldn't, in any way, be comfortable in that position, but he was asleep, nonetheless.

Sam walked over, tops of his long fingers tucked in his jean pockets, rocking on his feet. He took out one hand, rubbing over his stubbled jaw and contemplated what to do next. He wandered closer to the bed, having to climb on with one knee planted down, near Dean's lower spine. The springs gave way and Dean rolled toward him, groaning. Sam reached over Dean's left shoulder, splaying a hand flat to his upper chest and lifted Dean about an inch or two from the mattress.

Dean never knew the difference. His head drooped low, chin to chest, soft snores told of a man lost in dreamland.

Sam was able to snag the shirt from under Dean's body, pulling the fabric free and throwing it into a pile on the floor, between the two beds. Then he took the second pillow, and while he had Dean lifted, tucking the plushness between Dean's aching chest and the hard mattress. There might be some bruised ribs there or a battered abdomen.

Dean shifted, moving his head upward onto the pillow he was half laying on already, then snuggled the one placed under him.

Sam combed the rest of the leafy dirt out of Dean's short strands, then left him wearing his rust-colored t-shirt. He inched his eyes down Dean's lean body, hoping that there wasn't something worse hidden under those clothes. He'd wake him in a few hours to shower or bathe. If Dean slept until morning, there was no telling how he'd feel. Probably like he'd been trampled by a herd of possessed livestock, twice.

Sam snickered, spurts of air leaking out. Loud enough to wake Dean.

Dean rolled only his head over. "Wake me in two hours, if you're still up."  He flipped back to stuff his face into the pillows. "I'll need to shower... bathe... something..."

Sam couldn't hear those soft snores, Dean was still awake, simply resting his eyes. "You gonna tell me where you were? What happened?" He spread his hands out wide, picking up the discarded shirt from the floor. Sometimes he felt like the parent with Dean.

"I'll tell you once I know."

"What's THAT supposed to mean?"

"What it sounds like I mean."

"Dean..."

"Sammy, please... let me sleep." Dean reached behind him, tapping two fingers on Sam's bare forearm. "We'll talk later."

Sam nodded his head, foregoing putting pressure on Dean to spill what he could remember, if anything. He sat on the bed for a few more minutes, watchful to his brother's sleep pattern. Dean was going under and fast approaching unconsciousness. He turned his head to look at the rise and fall of Dean's back, the slow intake and outburst of air in the lungs. They were hitched, slightly, in movement, showing Sam that Dean had been beaten or punched hard.

He covered his eyes, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He should really stay up longer, keep an eye on Dean. He could use the extra time to research more.

Sam had investigated further into the house and the property they'd been to earlier this evening. He found out some interesting tidbits of information, which he would have shared with Dean had he been awake. Nothing was more surprising than what he still couldn't find with Dean's jacket, boots and shirt.

The jacket not only smelled of smoke, but had ash residue caked on certain areas where moisture had collected. The boots were worn on the back heel as if Dean had been dragged, feet dangling behind him. And the shirt was the least helpful, except being covered in dirt, or soot, being torn here and there and covered in what was hopefully Dean's blood.

~&~

There was almost 10 minutes left, but Dean woke himself up. For a minute, he was disturbed, like he wasn't aware of where he was. He lay there, so still, trying to ease into breathing and consciousness. He'd had quite a dream. When he tried to move to roll off the mattress, Dean knew what had happened wasn't a dream. He glanced over at Sam, bathed in moonlight and the neon "Blueberry Hill" sign, pretending to peruse a file and book.

"So... talk to me..."

"About?" Sam tucked the file folder inside the book.

"Who or what we're up against."

"Oh, I don't know, Dean. Why don't you tell me...?"

"And I say to..." Dean thought his voice sounded strange, laced with quivering. He cleared his throat. Like when he was younger, sleeping beside Sam, feeling that overpowering sense of doom. "... mind your own Ps and Qs."

"I'm only trying to help."

"Well, sheesh... don't bother. I can take care of myself." Dean attempted to punctuate the dramatic point by sliding over and standing on his own two feet beside the bed. As he shifted, he simply kept going, until he disappeared onto the floor.

Sam was quick to move, coughing fretfully to disguise laughter. He admitted he liked when Dean lost a few brain cells or someone took him down a peg or two from being BossMan. But right now, this minute, the overly theatrical stubbornness coupled with the prat fall voided one another out. Instead of thinking Dean a fool, he actually felt sorry for him.

"Uhm... you okay?" Sam came around the end of the bed frame to find Dean stretched out as if he'd meant to fall exactly where he had landed. He was even sitting up on his elbows, protecting his head from cracking on the outlining bed frame. 

"Peachy, Princess." Dean frowned, then smiled, which was a quick move he normally did when he knew Sam was close to making a smart-ass comment. "And you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Warm. It's pretty cold down there, huh?"

"Tell me about it." Dean rolled his eyes, clearing his throat, again.

Sam pinched his lips together, wondering when Dean was going to swallow his pride and simply ask him. "You want some help?"

"Uh... not unless you're buxom, a brunette and you have killer legs."

Sam shrugged one shoulder, crossing his arms low over his stomach. "I'm flat-chested. I'm told my hair color actually is a shade of mahogany... mixture of browns and blacks. And I'm afraid I don't know what you mean by 'killer' legs, but I do leg squats in the gym. I look fairly edible in bicycle shorts." He made a motion of squatting down to Dean's level.

Dean put a hand out to shield his innocent eyes. "No. Don't show me!" Then he saw how Sam's shape wasn't filling his entire hand, so he kept his lids closed on purpose with his fingers.

"Ha... you wished you looked as good as I do." Sam chuckled deeply, biting his thumb nail, then dangling his hands between his bent knees.

"Ah, I think I can admire from afar, like always." Dean uncovered his lids, blinked fast and squinting his eyes to focus correctly. "And, excuse me, Mr. Universe" He looked over at Sam, smirking. "... I've been told I have a body that won't quit, too."

"... and a bottomless pit for a stomach." Sam pet Dean's flat belly, snickering when Dean slapped his hand away.

"You're jealous because all you eat is twigs and lawn clippings. I eat real honest, Uncle Sam American food. Rich, meaty, fatty, downhome cooking, covered in gravy and/or cheese." Dean smiled in wild-eyed wonder at what he could go for right about now, but he was in too much pain.

"Are you done?" Sam sat Indian style, entwining his hands together to set in his lap.

"With what?"

"Changing the subject."

"No one likes a smart ass."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Promise breaker." Sam sighed once he saw Dean go silent, glancing away and down. "Look... do you want help or not?" He held out his hand as a simple gesture, nothing permanent.

"Not." Dean barked out as if he'd already said "no".

"Fine."

"Wait!" Dean was able to lift up his torso, clutching at Sam's t-shirt sleeve.

"What?"

"Would you mind, uh... dragging me into the bathroom, before you go back to bed?" Dean was actually able to use his grip on Sam to hoist himself half-way upright.

"Dean..." Sam reached down to clamp his entire arm around Dean's. He was prepared to tug him upward, whenever. "I'm not a fragile little kid anymore. I bet I can lift you into my arms and carry you inside the bathroom without breaking a sweat.

"Wager?"

"Driving privileges... first music choice for a week... also, choice of the next job."

"All that... for a little 'Damsel in Distress' action?"

"Except... isn't this really 'Dean in Distress'?"

"Your wit astounds me, Sammy, but I like your bet and your wager is more than fair."

Sam didn't have to take one more minute to think. He wrapped Dean's arm about his neck, then placed one arm at mid-back, the other under the thighs, up near the backs of the knees. As he stood tall, he threw Dean in the air to adjust their bodies, causing Dean to screech like girl not to be dropped. He was gripping Sam's head tightly in both hands, pressing Sam's face to his upper chest, nearly suffocating him. Sam mumbled something against his t-shirt. "Huh?"

Thankfully, Dean moved backward a bit. "I can't see."

"Sorry." Dean swallowed, not trusting his little brother not to dump him in the empty tub and walk away. "Put me down."

"Dean..."

"Put me down, Sam."

"C'mon, Dean..." Sam, unfortunately, chose to laugh at this point.

"Sammy... **PUT**... **ME DOWN**..." Dean said this between his clenched teeth, pulling on a few strands of Sam's wavy/curly hair.

"Ow!" Sam was shaking his head, hoping it would loosen Dean's strength. He had a good chunk of hair. "What are you? Four?!"

"Put me down, Sammy!" Dean said it louder and more fierce, which worked about as good as nothing at all.

"Let go of my hair, Dean." Sam began to get frustrated and Dean was attempting to climb out of his arms, sore and achy. He squeezed Dean to his chest, trying to walk toward the tiny bathroom while his hair was being yanked out by its roots.         

They had a few awkward moments of banging each other against the door frame, knocking skulls and stepping on bare/socked feet.

"Put... me... down... now, Sammy..." The tone was calmer, yet more dangerous.

Sam knew that voice. Belonged to Dad. He dropped Dean on the closed toilet lid and stormed out of the bathroom. He didn't go far, he knew Dean might need him back, sooner or later. Stubborn asshole.

"... Sam..." Dean called out with some trepidation. He had no idea how his brother's demeanor would be. He might come in and strangle him. He had to watch how far he pushed Sam's buttons toward anger. What exactly does set a Demon's reaction off?

Sam pinched his lips, looking down at the floor. He was hiding his smile. Dean was so transparent. He needed him, more than he wanted to admit. He got a bit of satisfaction from hearing the "little boy" voice softly ask for him to return. Sam opened the door slowly, after letting Dean stew for a minute or two. He leaned on the shoddy wood trim of the doorframe. He crossed his hands low, resting fingers around the doorknob. "Why do you bother, Dean? I don't need special powers to know you're hiding something from me."

 

Dean stared, hard, then he gazed in that half-lidded glint. He was stiffening his body to show he knew more than his younger sibling. "Okay, Kreskin... why don't you tell me what I'm feeling AND... share with me what I'm keeping from you."

Sam slid along the wall, further in. He brought up one leg, bending at the knee, foot flat to the cheap plaster. "Why won't you let me close, Dean?" His brow wrinkled in curiosity.

Dean bowed his head, closing his lids. He exhaled on a puff of air. "Sam, that's not even an answer to... anything..."

"Yes it is." Sam threw up his hands in frustration, a chopping motion used to accent as he spoke. "Something happened tonight that pissed you off. And that something had a lot to do with me..." One hand touched his mid-sternum. He pursed his mouth when he heard Dean sniffle out a snicker, shaking his head. So he knew Dean was tired of everything being about HIM. "... or Dad. Believe me, Dean... the list gets shorter every year."

"Whoa! Someone's been eating their leafy, green vegetables." Dean managed to stand, crossing his own arms, mid-torso. He didn't know how long his legs would last, holding him up.

Sam had to admit these verbal spars with Dean got him riled up, but he loved them. They told him how much Dean truly cared, even when he couldn't say the words. Just like Dad. But with Dad it was much more difficult to understand if the hate could really be there, because of what had happened to Mary Winchester. Could a father actually love _and hate_ his own son? "And I almost made it through college, too. My Big Brain often hurts when I make it think too hard. Well... harder than you."

Dean mimicked fake laughter, holding his stomach, then straightened his features. "Dad WAS proud of you, Sam." He sent out one hand to cup Sam's boney shoulder, squeezing the joint. "You got the brains..." Then he simply smiled that charming Winchester grin and permeated an appeal that made Sam love him more. "... and I got the beauty..." His hand reached up to softly slap the lean cheek.

"Dean... do you mind?"

"Mind what?" One eyebrow rose in question. Dean took away his hand, in case Sam didn't like his touch on him.

"Did you really need me for something... or to kick me around some more?"

"Yeah, uh... my jeans..."

"Yeah. You're wearing them." Sam slid his hands to his hips, fingers catching on the belt loops. "And you want me to do...?"

"I can't get them off." Dean said the sentence with his eyes shut, licking his lips, then reopening his eyes to find Sam dumbstruck.

"Off?"

"What... am I speaking French?" Dean rolled his hand over. "I can't get them off... the zipper..." He held out his trembling hands for Sam to see for himself. The most prominent injury was the semi-circular burn mark on his trigger hand. The burnt flesh looked fairly gross.

"Jesus, Dean..." Sam covered one hand over his eyes, running the palm over his brow, then combing through his shaggy hair.

"What?!" Dean wanted to say it wasn't HIS fault, but he really couldn't recall what exactly had made him look this way or feel so weak, look so dirty and bruised, battered to a pulp. "The zipper's stuck. My hands feel thick and puffy." He raised the other eyebrow. "Think I'm a liar?"

"No. I think..." Sam sighed heavily, shaking his head. Some days Dean made him want to hit his head on a brick wall, several times to draw blood or make sense. "... you don't know what you want. Or how to feel around me. I even think, sometimes, you're afraid of me. Of what I could become... should you make a wrong move..."

Dean rolled his eyes, chuckling eerily. "Please..." Sam was right on the money. He hated when Sam was right. "... you're a looney."

"Am I?" Sam quickly advanced on Dean, hands outstretched to prove his point.

Dean stretched his hands, palms in front, in a flash to ward off Sam's approach. "Just the zipper. No 'funny stuff'. Don't go... checkin' out my goods or anything."

Sam chuckled, unsure of where Dean would get any idea he'd "go gay" for him. "And why exactly would I do _that_?" So he stepped up to Dean, eyes steady on Dean's face as his hands took care of the "sticky" business of the zipper. He spread the jean flaps wide, helping slide the denim down lean hips. He was going to stop, but Dean got the wrong idea as his hand came out to smack Sam's hands away. Sam got what he wanted, snatching one in his grasp. He squeezed the middle finger pad, doing a move to where he flipped the hand around, palm upward.

"Ow!" Dean shoved Sam away, taking his aching hand back. "What was that for?"

Sam smirked, twinkle in his eyes. "Well... your right hand isn't broken." He held out a hand, wiggling the fingers. "Let me see your left."

"Sadist." Dean was hesitant, but once he finally did give over his arm, he stiffened his body to bear the brunt of pain. "Jeeee-sus! Christ!" He took the hand back and hid it behind him. "Careful YOU just might be the one to break them."

Sam stepped backward a few inches, creating the distance Dean craved. One hand on his hip, the other scratching at the side of his nose. He used his free hand to gesture as he talked. "Don't worry. They're so numb from bruising, it won't matter what I do to them." His eyes jutted up and down, from hand to Dean's face. Dean kept favoring the left hand, soothing the inner bones and muscles. "They'll look prettier by tomorrow."

Dean smiled, the corners of his mouth quickly reaching his eyes, then disappearing. "All my favorite colors of the EmoRainbow."

Sam was about to chuckle himself, but he caught sight of something... literally etched on Dean's skin. It surrounded the circumference of his wrist. "What's _that_?" He used his index finger to point.

Dean looked down, then actually followed the trail of Sam's eyes. "What's _what_?"

" _THAT!_ " Sam roughly grabbed for Dean's forearm, pulling him close.

Dean almost faltered, using Sam's chest to balance his body on. "Sammy, would you quit?!" What was with him? He must need a woman... badly, to want this closeness between them. Of course it was what he told himself to fabricate a lie, from the truth he already knew. 

Ever since Dean revealed to Sam about the secret Dad had whispered in his ear, Dean had an intense over-protectiveness towards his younger brother. Strange thing was he almost couldn't stand to be near him, as well. Dean would rather face a cavalcade of supernatural entities after his ass than one Sammy Winchester playing the main lead in HIS version of the Exorcist.

"Is it a rash?"

Dean looked at the line around his wrist over. It wasn't dark, like a tattoo. Kind of inky red, like someone had taken a red Sharpie marker and goofed drawings all over him while he'd been asleep. "No." He furrowed his brow in concentration. From the jutting boney portion of his wrist came a dotted line, faint, as if faded by intense sunlight. Leaving just enough mystery to annoy, frustrate and peak his own interest to the unknown.

"Do you itch?"

Dean paused, waiting for the itch to happen. Like when you saw bugs or spiders crawling on TV, then ten seconds later you're scratching your scalp, feeling thousands of tiny creepy-crawly bug legs wandering down your naked skin. "Uhm... nope..."

"Did something... or someone... bite you in the woods?" Sam only asked because Dean's hair had been full of the debris of rolling around in someone's yard. And that property's grass was... a violation of someone's neighborhood rules and regulations.

"Not to my present knowledge."

"Yeah, which isn't stellar at the moment." Sam sighed, shaking his head as he stared down at Dean's arm, watching the green gaze look at his own skin. He was as stunned and speechless as Sam. Taking the opportunity, since he'd just come up with the question, Sam licked his lips. "Did you make any pacts with The Devil?" He smiled, then snickered, but Dean wasn't joining in. Dean was actually averting his head as if thinking hard on if the question were true or not.

The possibilities were endless, in their line of work.

Dean felt a jolt to his body, like someone sending electric current through his system. He perked up, realizing he'd zoned out for a second. "Ha-Ha, FunnyMan. I'm rollin'. Seriously. You should take your act on the road... and outside my personal bathroom time." He put a hand at Sam's right shoulder and the shoulder blade, pushing him to head outside the door. "Leave me in peace."

Sam was appalled, mainly pissed off. "YOU asked me in here."

Dean grabbed the doorknob, holding Sam at bay. He simply poked his head through the door opening. "Yeah... well, I didn't expect a chit-chattery tea party, either." He was about to slam the door, effectively, when Sam's hand pushed back on the paneling.

"You can't run from me forever, Dean."

"Nice, Sam. Go back to bed. Or whatever you were doing before I woke up."

"Yes, sir." Sam sent a slanted salute toward Dean, Marine-form and style.

"Ingrate."

"Asshole."

Dean blew him a puckered air kiss before he slammed the door, then locked the knob.

Sam shook his head, slightly miffed, as he moved to sit on Dean's bed. He brought his legs up, reaching out with his right arm to snag the pillow Dean had been hugging while he napped. Sam could envision tons of times he'd done this, when Dad was alive and they were years younger. Sometimes, he'd be the only one left in the motel room, while Dean went on a hunt with Dad. The leftover scent soothed him to some odd calm, a contentedness. A sense of love that was unbreakable, the bond tighter than the strongest knot. He flipped over to lay on his right side, facing the window, overlooking the empty parking lot. He embraced the plushness as if Dean were actually here, something his brother would never allow to happen unless his life were in peril.

What worried him most was what Dean didn't speak of. At least when he said something, Dean was active. Whether it be his eyes or his features, Sam could read him like a See Jane Run book. When he didn't speak and shut his emotions down, frozen solid, Sam got... well, scared.

Winchesters never got scared, right?

~&~

Normally Dean wasn't one for long showers, but this time he made an exception. He hurt, ached in places he never knew he could and the hot pulsating water took away that pain. Easy remedy. Only problem was he'd turn into a prune soon if he didn't hightail it out of the tub in the next few minutes or so.

He stood under the spray, just five minutes more, splaying both hands on either side of the shower head, letting the fast-paced droplets cascade down his back and fall into curves and crevices he couldn't reach. He scrubbed his hair down twice, nearly pulling every bit of loose hair out of his head. He washed his body as best he could, but mostly he wanted the water to clean away something he felt was all over him. He stood for a few seconds, letting the hard spray pelt his face as he rubbed at his lids.

Shutting off the valves, he reached through the plastic curtain to pick up the larger towel, from the rack, to swipe down his face, then his upper body and down his waist and legs. One leg, two, over the tub and onto the terry cloth bath mat. He tucked the material about his hips, taking down the small hand towel and washcloth. He leaned over the sink to swipe at the fogged mirror. He had to check on those red markings before Sam came back in. He held up his left arm, looking at the redness that was still around his wrist, then trailing along his arm to under his biceps. God knows where it went after the lines disappeared.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed, moving away from the mirror to lean his back against the wall. There was a slight sheen of moisture to the aged plaster and his bare skin stuck in certain places.

Sam was already on alert, so he crawled out of Dean's bed. He turned to pick up the pile of clothes he'd gathered and strolled to the door. He knocked, then walked in as easily as he pleased. "Hey... brought you something to change into." He held them up and set them high on the towel's shelf, next to the shower/tub. "What's up?" His bottom front teeth bit at his top lip.

Dean held out his arm to Sam. "Didn't wash away like I thought."

Sam used both hands to smooth over the length of the forearm, he felt Dean shiver. His blue-green gaze squinted to make sure he wasn't causing his brother harm. "They aren't raised, like burn marks or brands." He began to knead the muscles and flesh up the biceps. "How far does it go?"

They almost stood nose to nose.

Dean kept his head bowed and averted, looking at the floor. He thought he saw a spider crawling, but closed his eyes. "Uh... I don't know. That's why I called you in here." He shook his head, lifting slowly to gaze at Sam's lower jaw. "I can't really see my back..." He pointed over his shoulder to the mirror, covered with beads of water. "... with the mirror all foggy and wet..."

"Dean..." Sam gesture the move with his chin, in a circular motion. "... turn around..."

"Sammy, I..." Dean reached out one hand to clamp hard onto Sam's biceps, but Sam was quicker.

"Look..." Sam gripped Dean's shoulder joints tight, shaking him. "... whatever this is, I've got it under control." He wanted Dean to look at him, so he dipped his head to catch those green eyes. "Hey... you take care of me, I do the same for you."

Dean pursed his lips, doing one solid shake of his head, then suddenly stopping. "I've nearly died twice, in the last year, Sammy..." His voice was tinged with a certain tone of apprehension. Of never knowing what could or would come next into their lives. And it wasn't like it was going to be kind enough to call ahead or give a warning of some type. "I don't know how much more of this I can take." Now he sounded at the end of his rope, lost and alone, barely able to breathe. Lonely even though he could see and touch Sammy. Sam always kept him grounded, made him stable, kept him from flying away. He didn't like having to think about what would happen to Sam if he were no longer here to watch over and protect him.

"That's why I'm here, Dean. So you aren't alone in this." Sam brought up one hand to softly tap Dean's stubbled cheek. "Turn around."

Dean released a long breath, sounding shaky. "Don't... sugarcoat it. If it's bad, I wanna know." Dean could never simply "turn around". His levels of trust always circumspect, even around his brother. He hated the dynamic of wanting to protect, but needing to push away Sam. If anyone was gonna watch over him it was going to be Dean. Even if it ended in death, either of them dying, actually.

Sam was about to bring his hands up to force Dean to turn, face the wall, but they weren't necessary. Dean twisted on his own, resting his forehead on the surface, like in the shower on the cool tile. Sam wasn't even looking at the wide expanse of naked back, as much as Dean's closed features in profile.

The way the lids shut, dark lashes sweeping pale cheeks. The tongue coming out to lick dry lips and the constant nervous swallowing, making the Adam's apple bob up and down.

Dean Winchester was afraid. Not the fear of evil beings, undead entities, restless spirits or sinister monsters. This was a different fear of the unknown, the inexplicable.

Sam's eyes darted to the shoulder joint, where the red tattooed line came up from under the biceps/arm pit. The trail circled down and around the shoulder blade, coming up the jutting bone. The line curved around the neck, stopping halfway, then detouring down and followed the curve of the entire spine. The tattoo was thicker, as if encasing the structure of the spinal chord under the etched red drawing.

"Well..." Sam heard his own voice crack, he cleared his throat. "... I've never seen anything like it."

"That's refreshing." Dean groaned, pressing his face into the wallpaper.

"Maybe Dad wrote something about this in his journal."

Dean flipped his face over to lay on his cheek. "What? Demonic Biker Tattooing 101?"

Sam bit his tongue to snap back. Now that they knew what was all over Dean, what could be taking his energy? He held back his anger. "No. This... it's obviously some spell... or a, uh... curse of some sort..."

"Oh, Happy Day!! I've got my own 'curse', just like my BabyBro." Dean was about ready to flip over when he felt fingers at the towel's hem about his hips. "Wha-? Whoa! Hold the phone here!! What ARE you doing?!" He had to quickly grab for the material before Sam exposed him. He was, literally, outraged.

"Relax." Sam's palm pressed reassuringly on Dean's mid-back. "The drawing doesn't stop at your back."

"Great, but you touch this towel again... I'll break YOUR fingers."

Sam crossed arms over his torso, tucking his fingers under his arms for protection. "Lower the towel yourself, then. Not all the way, but I need to see..."

"This... is... a little..." Dean loosened the towel only a little, lowering the terry cloth barely an inch. "... aaaaawwwwwkwarrrd..."

Sam shook his head, his hand cupping his chin in thought. "Yeah. It looks exact to what your wrist has, but bigger... around your waist and..." He spun his index finger in a circle drawn in the air. "... turn again..." He forgot to mention putting the towel back on tight, but Dean was already in the process of that motion.

Dean retucked the towel about his hips, then watched his brother follow something drawn (more tattoo??), buried in the dark hair covering his thigh and calf. He watched the dark head bow over him and investigate. Feeling a LOT like a lab rat, Dean shoved Sam's shoulder. "Jesus... keep talking to me..." He folded his hands behind his bottom and sat on them.

"Exactly like your arm." Sam was moving his head up and around Dean's leg, watching the lines curve and shape the muscles. "It's almost as if they have a purpose beneath your skin. Like they're following nerves or tendons or blood vessels." He followed the lines until the end. "They finally meet down here and... yup..." He pointed with his fingers. "... there's a circle around your right ankle, too."

Dean... had enough. "Out."

"Dean!" Sam almost lost his footing. He stood up and grabbed onto Dean's elbow.

"Now, Sam. **OUT!** "

"But..."

"I'm gonna get dressed. Out!"

"Okay... okay... I'm going." Sam made a big flourish of leaving, ready to slam the door, but it was pulled out of his grasp. "What?"

"... nothin'. Throw Dad's journal on my bed!" Dean shut the door.

"Dean... I can help." Sam yelled as he made his way over to the table and two chairs, picking up Dad's worn leather journal.

Through the closed door, Dean kept the conversation going. "We also... got a job here to do! You keep all eyes and ears open on that end... and I'll do this one myself...!"

"C'mon, man..." Sam held open his arms, journal flat on one palm. "... let me..." He was still in the middle of yelling when Dean pushed him out of his path, grabbing the journal from his brother's hand.

Dean made it over to the second chair at the square table. He flicked on the overhead lamp, plopping the book on the surface and opening the spiral binding. He began to flip through the pages, jumping back and forth, wishing Dad had time to jot down a readily available Table Of Contents page. He turned the pages so hard, Sam thought they might rip.

"Dean."

"..."

"Dean..."

"Not now, Sammy."

Sam took the other chair and sat down to face Dean, hands clasped about the arm rests. "If it makes you feel any better, you don't look different."

"Yeah... thanks a bunch. Not really relieved or reassured by that comment."

"Dean..." Sam stared down at the piles of books and paper, file folders and legal note pads, soothing his fingers over his mouth.

"What?" Dean didn't look up from his reading material.

"You WILL be fine."

"You fuckin' bet I will." Dean nearly barked out with an edge to his voice he'd never heard, caught between fear and fearlessness. He raised his eyes, looking under his lashes at Sam. "I, uh..." He rubbed a palm over his tattooed leg. "... feel..." Then he rubbed the hand over his chest, leaning back in the chair. "... different."

"How so?" Sam frowned with confusion in his gaze.

"Uhm... like I'm tired."

"You've only had two hours of sleep in the last twelve hours."

"I'm not talking about that kind of tired. I feel drained, exhausted. All tapped out. Like I'm ten seconds from falling face first in my mashed potatoes and gravy."

Sam had to chuckle, because that was such a "Dean" thing to say. His brother's spirit was still alive and inside him. But what was about to overtake him? What did all those drawings of lines and lassos over his body mean...?

Sam snapped his fingers. " **THAT'S IT!!** "

"What's IT?"

"The circles around your wrist, waist and ankle..."

"Yeah?"

"They look like lassos." Sam could see the blank stare from Dean. "You know... cowboys.. ropes... cattle... lasso..."

"Yeah, Sam... I've seen a rodeo before, jerk. What the hell does it mean, though?"

"Someone's trying to... uh... 'harness' your power. Rope you in like human cattle."

"Rope me in? Who is it... Johnny Wayne Krueger?"

"Dean... it's only a theory." Sam made a sweeping gesture toward Dad's journal. "Start from there."

"Where? Looney Town? Certifiably Delusional Junction?"

Sam leaned forward, over his piles of research. "What the hell happened out there, Dean?"

"I don't know. Last thing I remember is..." Dean really couldn't recall right away. He felt that electrical jolt and went still.

Sam never noticed a difference. Only that Dean stared off into space. "... is what?"

In no time at all, Dean was back. As if someone pressed PAUSE on his recorder, then PLAY again. "You and I..." He wrinkled his brow in befuddlement, unsure exactly what the point was he was trying to make. "... right before... the house..."

"You don't even remember how you got back here? To the motel?"

Dean moved the curtains at the window. "Impala's parked out front. I could have..."

"No, Dean. You were gone when I came back to the car, from searching for you. You and the Impala were gone."

"But... I'd never leave you just..." Dean was attempting to give a good explanation for what may or may not have happened.

"Exactly what I'm saying. It's not like you to ditch me and run away. Least you'd do is come find me and rub my face in your fun." Sam attempted to smile, hoping Dean would look over at him and reciprocate the motion. "Someone took you, Dean."

"Who? Our friendly neighborhood space alien?"

"Don't joke about this."

"You DO see..." Dean pointed to his mouth, the stillness of his lips. "... I'm not laughing, right?"

Sam was almost becoming an expert on Dad's book. "Start with warlocks/witches... possession and binding spells."

"Witches? I knew you had a boner for those Charmed sisters."

"Dean... stranger things have happened."

"So sayeth the Demon Child."

"Just call me 'Damian'." Sam bit the inside of his cheek, realizing Dean was offering him a moment to "play". "Better than being Satan's 'bitch'."

"Hey! **I AM NO ONE'S BITCH!!** " Dean smirked, looking up at Sam under his lashes. He already knew what his little brother was thinking. "Not even yours, Sammy."

Sam couldn't stop laughing, because he knew how wrong Dean was. _Wrapped Around Your Finger_ by The Police played in his head. "Tell me when you need the laptop." He started to move things around, cleaning up so he could gather all the information to tell Dean the background story of what he'd found so far.  

"Eyes on your own research, Sam!" Dean winked, burying his face in the pages of Dad's flourish of handwriting and newspaper clippings and anything he felt remotely was important.

Sam would periodically dash a quick look or two toward Dean, his body now on alert for any changes in his older brother. Dean had vowed to be there for him, he would do the same. Always. He couldn't help smiling like a Chesire cat as he went about his books and notes. He had no idea he'd missed this with Dean until they'd been forced together to find Dad.

Now... what exactly DID hold them together and keep them loyal to the other?

 **~ &~&~&~&~&~&~&~...TBC...~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~**


	3. Chapter 3

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 **CHAPTER Two**

 **~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

 **Winchester Rule # 25 :** **_A true warrior never lets the opposition see him weak, defeated or injured. Eyes are the windows to the soul, keep them steady and focused... (_** _edited by Dean Winchester 4-05-03_ ** _) If not... buy a pair of sunglasses. Your opponent can't see your eyes... and you'll look cool while dying._**

 **8:23am - BLUEBERRY HILL Motel -**

Dean woke up to feet. Okay, they were under the motel bed sheets, but they were still feet. Feet placing pressure on his aching chest. This was a sleeping pose Sam used to do as a child. On his side, legs drawn up tight to his stomach as he slumbered. By the time he was in deep REM, those legs would straighten, finding a place to rest flat against Dean. The reason was because Sam would get scared of noises at night, pretty certain an Axe Murder was in the closet. Dean would sleep at the end of the bed, curled, facing Sam. He would use his body like a human barrier against Evil and imaginary sharp implements.

He hadn't meant to sleep here. Dean had plopped down, feeling weary. Told himself he'd sit for a few, then get up and ramble on to his own bed. But he ended up laying on Sam's mattress, Dad's journal clutched to his body. He was only attempting to think, gather his thoughts of his own experiences, see if he could figure this out without research. He was coming up empty. Maybe if he shut his eyes and held the book tight to his chest, the information he was looking for would osmosis-ize into his flesh, seeping into his brain.

About the only thing in Dad's writings about Michigan were articles on a local legend called The Dog Man. Had nothing to do with harnessing human energy with a lasso tattoo, just old Cheyenne Indian legend during wartime in 1860. Demons tended to burn the skin or cut the surface to mark innocent souls with their symbols. This could very well be the work of a Demon, who dabbled in the Dark Arts. But if he needed spells and curses, he was a fairly inept Demon, but a great adversary in battle for humans.

Sam began to wake up, rolling over onto his back. He stretched his arms high, then backward, cracking his fingers on the headboard. He let them fall, arcing over his face. "We going to breakfast or not?"

Dean wondered if he could recover having been in this position all night. "I am kinda hungry. I could do with a hearty breakfast platter."

Sam snickered, shaking his head. He sat up, resting against his pillows. "Sha! I wonder why. You didn't eat anything at all last night." He didn't want to sound like he was nagging, but Dean not eating was a sure sign of impending sickness.

"Not MY fault."

"Not mine, either." Sam cleared his throat, crawling from under the thin sheets, planting his feet on the floor. "Take out?" He bent over, slightly, to grip the edge of the mattress, looking over at Dean. He wasn't even going to mention that the other bed looked unslept in.

"I could eat in."

"In a restaurant?"

"What am I... the red-headed step-child?"

"Dean, c'mon... you think that's wise?"

"Wise? I'm not a monster, Sammy. I CAN control this... uh, _whatever_ it is. I'm not gonna embarrass you in public."

"How do you know?"

" 'Cause I SAY so. I know I won't."

Sam bit his top lip from saying one more word on the subject. Dean was old enough and he knew his body better than Sam did. "I'll shower first. Give you a chance to..."

"Sam, I don't need you to..." Dean tried to roll suavely off the edge of the bed, at the foot, to stand at his feet. Instead, gravity won over. Dean rolled off the end, then dropped, face-planting on the tacky carpet. "... uh-oofhmph...!!"

Sam stood still, arms crossed high on his chest to ward of a chill. "Why can't you get out of bed like a normal person?"

"Normalcy has never been my strong point." Dean said between bouts of aches. Damn! That smarted. "Nor is it a great Winchester virtue."  He sighed, figuring since he was down here he might as well get comfortable.

"Then you must really like this carpet." Sam grumbled at Dean's refusal to admit his new quirk. He moved to the duffel bag of his clean clothes.

"It's not as soft or plush like it appears from up there, Jolly Green Giant." Dean folded his arms, laying his cheek on bare forearms. He would never admit how weak he felt, how listless he was and wanting to fall asleep.

"Dean, can you get up?" Sam was standing above his brother, all his belongings piled in his arms. He was ready to hog the bathroom for a few minutes.

"Maybe. If I had a tire jack." Dean remained laying there, not saying 'yes', 'no'... 'leave me alone'. He waited until he heard Sam walk away, closing the bathroom door. About the only thing he could do, without harming himself, was turn over. As he landed on his back, Dad's journal finally loosened from snagging on the bed spread. Tumbling down, the pages flopped, spreading open to reveal a page.

 _Pages_ , actually.

Dean frowned, blinking hard, because his experience was things never happened _accidentally_. They had purpose and reason. More than anything, John Winchester had instilled in him that if certain oddities occurred once, they were bound to happen again. No matter how evil or devilish someone was, they had a sense of familiarity.

They could be gone for twenty years, but they'd be back. They'd return to the same exact place, at the same exact time, because you could always guarantee one thing. Human beings were stupid, in short. They were naturally curious, inquisitive. A little bit misinformed. Gullible, even.

Dean found he could use one arm, the non-tattooed one, to lift his torso, sitting upright. He slid around to lean his back against the end of the bed. His legs were still immovable. He used his lap as a flat surface. He glanced down at the pages displayed to him.

Single article. Nothing too shocking. **Local Man Lost Entire Family To Blaze, Daughter Found Alive.** Wasn't much to read. Any usual newspaper subscriber, who perused the page, would read the article, make the appropriate empathetic face and move on.

For Dean, the story became riveting. Mainly because he knew Dad wouldn't have put any random article in the journal. John had even circled a few passages, pinpointing information that had leapt out to him.

To summarize, Father was away on business. Home caught on fire. Wife, daughter and newborn son perished in fire. Fast forward several years, father meets up with young girl who mysteriously looks like dead daughter. She IS his daughter, who had made it out of the burning house. Kept running, because something had "chased" her away. A kind, childless couple found her and raised her as their own. Daughter doesn't speak or play like a normal child. Father became suspicious that the couple, who'd taken his daughter, abused her. He recalled how bubbly and lively his child used to be.

The two paragraphs John Winchester had highlighted told of information that piqued Dean's interest, too. One talked about the past. How protective the daughter had been of her newborn sibling. Father claimed the daughter acted as if it was her sole purpose to guard her tiny brother from all the "bad" and "evil" of this world. The second set of words was about the daughter and now how her once perfect skin was marked by these strange "rashes". The article didn't go into deep detail about what they exactly looked like, but Dean could assume they were like his own tattoos.

Anyone reading the article would assume the journalist meant bruises or cuts from child abuse by the kind couple who'd kept the young girl for three years. But Dean knew. Even Dad's side bar notes, off the article, told the same deal.

Sam came out of the bathroom, fully dressed, letting his hair air dry. He rebagged his dirty clothes, then wandered over toward the bed. Dean was seated now, engrossed in reading a page in Dad's journal. "Find something?" He wanted to sit on the floor, beside Dean, but he chose a less intrusive position. Laying on his stomach, head at the end of the bed, feet at the headboard. He wanted to peek over Dean's shoulder and get an inkling of how to help without Dean really knowing.

"Possibly." Dean frowned, finally finished with not only the article, but Dad's scribbles. "If I'm gettin' Dad's mumbo-jumbo right... what we're dealing with has happened before."

"What? You're kidding me?!" Sam reached out to snag the book, Dean was already handing it over. Sam rolled to his left, curling his body slightly. "Right down to the tattooing?"

"Well, apparently, that's what Dad was attempting to find out. Maybe what made him curious was how close it was to Mom's death. Burning ball of fire, mommy and newborn son and all." Dean was about to say more, but Sam was entranced by the article. Then he climbed easily off the mattress, still reading and plopped down in front of the laptop. Dean envied his brother's quick, agile movements. Damn, he felt like an 80yr old grandparent, read to shut himself in his home and never talk to another soul. "I'll go shower..." He was about to crack something witty, but he simply didn't have the energy for sarcasm.

Sam set Dad's journal off to the side, open to the exact article on the page. He began clicking away to investigate further. If Dean wouldn't allow him to help the way he wanted, then Sam would suffice with what Dean would let him do. Plus, Dean wasn't computer savvy like Sam. In fact, in a lot of ways, Dean wasn't caught up with the times. He was too keen to be Old School. He was John Winchester Redux, with a dash of Dean.

Once Dean was finally able to rise off the floor, he made his way into the bathroom. The hot shower was even more heavenly the second time around. He took another look at the tattooing on his body, only to see if there were any changes. There were none, but Dean didn't think this thing would stop. Chances were, as the days passed on, the problems that seemed to come and go now would escalate.

As he made his way out of the bathroom, Dean discovered Sam had been quite the office drone. Typing away and printing out most of the information he'd been able to locate. Sam placed everything in a manila file, then picked up Dad's journal. He carried the pile, squeezed in the palm of his left hand, and walked toward the door.

"I'll wait for you outside."

Dean didn't know what to think. Sam beating a hasty retreat as if he didn't want to be here, or be alone with him, had him worried. Dean had been feeling peculiar since he woke up, not himself. He feared whatever was plaguing him had already settled into his system. Now, just a matter of time. A matter of time before he could very well become incapacitated.

"Sammy!" Dean bellowed before Sam shut the door. Dean reached the nightstand, between the two beds, and grabbed the keys, flinging them at Sam.

Sam caught the keys, one handed, mid-chest. "Dean? You feelin' okay?" He was trying. Trying to ignore the sickly look about his brother's face. How pale he was and drained he appeared. Dean was smart, not book intelligent, but crafty enough to wing brilliance. He could figure out situations as fast as any college graduate. Sam knew Dean was aware he wasn't right, but he'd never admit anything was off-putting until the very last second possible.

"I feel fine."

Sam pinched his lips together. "Yeah? Well... you look like shit."

Dean did a quick "gun-slinger" move. "Right back atcha, pard-ner!"

"I'll warm up the Impala, then."

"Clean out the backseat, too."

"Why?"

"Sam, just clean it out." Dean was about to wander away, but he wanted Sam to know he'd been paying attention. "... an' leave the file and Dad's journal on the bench seat. I'll look it over."

"Dean..."

"Sammy. Just... _do it._ "

Sighing heavily, Sam nodded once, then closed the door softly.

Dean sat down on the side of the bed, putting on heavy wool socks, his thick motorcycle boots and wrapping himself in a button-down flannel plaid shirt of blue prints over his black t-shirt. He decided he'd carry his worn, hip-length, brown leather jacket in his hand. He fondled the pendant around his neck. He'd never known what possessed him to keep this thing. Or why he sometimes felt different with it on. Almost invincible or that he had nine lives and he'd just wasted two of them.

When Dean walked out, locking the room behind him, he noticed that Sam had hefted a public trash can over to the Impala. Dean walked around the hood, coming up to the seat behind the passenger side. He pocketed the hotel room key, then placed what he had in his hands on the roof. He opened the door and helped throw Sam some of the garbage on that side.

Sam had already started to keep important slips of paper they'd thrown over their shoulders and chucked once they had no use for them again. Things they could one day add to Dad's journal or start on their own. Sam had found himself a nice shoebox to throw these things into.

Dean could feel the unbearable silence between them. "Where'd the shoebox come from?" It looked like it had some food stains on the side. Least it didn't smell like urine or dog shit.

"Hotel trash can. Just a minor spaghetti sauce stain."

"Ah." Dean had cleared the seat portion and plopped down. "So... tell me what I'll be up against."

Sam sighed again, causing Dean to shut his eyes in quiet misery. Sam averted his head to the left, away from his brother's gaze. He squatted in the doorway. Dean had pushed everything toward him enough to make room to sit down, now he was picking at the floor between his feet. Sam eventually looked up at Dean, feeling the silence stretch for too long, finding Dean staring down at him. "She's _you_ , Dean."

"Pardon?" Dean was a little flabbergasted. She was "who"... exactly? Was he talking more about the little girl in the article in Dad's journal? "Uh... wanna run that by me again?" He could barely smile at a comment like that, even his laughter was weak.

"SHE... is Kimberlyn Addison. 'Lyn' to her family. Friends called her 'KJ', for her middle name Judith, which was her mother's name. In 1991, Lyn ran away from home when a fire began in her baby brother's nursery. Same M.O. as Mom and Jess. Only, Lyn didn't stay, she took off and never looked back. Problem was when the fire died down and they could identify the bodies, they discovered three. There was no doubt Lyn had died with her Mom and brother."

"Any reason for running?"

"Something chased her away was all she would claim."

Dean closed his eyes and pursed his lips, shaking his head in mild annoyance. He hated when the Demon changed tactics on him, did something slightly different to make him feel inadequate about keeping Sam safe. "So... Daddy Dearest comes home to a burnt out home and a dead family and he..."

Sam stood up quickly, his knees cracking as he became upright. He began to roll down the window of the car to feed trash through to the garbage bin. "... tries to move on, I suppose. No foul play. Electrical wiring mishap in the nursery..."

Dean chuckled mischievously, leaning his head back on the seat near the rear window. "... and it _only happened in the ceiling_ , I'll bet. It's what they told Dad, but he knew different." He could see the manila folder of articles and pictures Sam had printed out for him to look over. He flipped through them, not really reading. He liked listening to Sam's logical discussions better. He even learned more. He figured he'd read this stuff later, when he had time to absorb everything.

"Glenn Addison, Lyn's father, tried to forget, but life wasn't the same. Too much guilt. He left town, became a work-a-holic bachelor in a town 50 miles away from where he had lived."

"So... how the hell did he find his daughter again?"

"He saw her. Thought she was a mirage or a ghost in the dust. She was at a gas station, with two people Glenn didn't recognize. He was about to leave on a conference in Tulsa, Oklahoma."

"Did he end up going?'

"Nope. He followed Lyn... who'd been going by the name Lucy Markette for three years. He followed Lyn and her 'parents' back to their home and confronted them. They finally did confess they'd found Glenn's daughter wandering the road late one night. She was incoherent, mumbling, in her nightgown and covered in soot. She had burn marks on the heels of her hands. The Markettes had just lost their only child... a daughter, Lucy... a year prior. Lyn was the perfect age and resembled Lucy as closely as possible for them to keep their 'daughter' alive and Lyn a secret."

"Sheesh! Kinda convenient, creepy and insane." Dean couldn't help think Sam had said "three bodies" in the fire were found. The Demon's plans were to take the six-month olds, not burn them to ashes. "Anything on the brother?"

"Yeah. Guess what? He wasn't one of the chosen." Sam feigned chuckling, not finding this bit of information he'd discovered that hilarious. He hated learning so many different scenarios to the way his life had almost began. First, they killed the mothers and took the babies. Then they would NOT kill the mothers and try to take the babies. Now... they killed everybody.

"Why the fire, then?"

"Cover tracks. Somebody didn't get the full picture. Judith Addison was carrying twin boys. One was a stillbirth, the other survived just barely. The wrong one survived."

"Jesus... these..." Dean wanted to bitch more, but he was really almost relieved that even Demons had faulty wiring and could make easy mistakes, like humans. "... well, maybe it's good to know Evil isn't as all-seeing and all-powerful like one would think."

"What's peculiar is... why one twin and not the other?"

"Eh... yeah... luck o' the draw, Sammy." Dean could almost mirror that for himself. _Why Sam and not ME?!?_

"Also... Lyn herself."

"What do you mean?" Dean furrowed his brow, his eyes intent on his brother's face.

"Being twelve at the time of her mother's pregnancy, she seemed awfully protective of them before they were even born. Once one was here and the other wasn't, she became near obsessive with not letting him out of her sight." Sam flashed a look towards Dean that spoke volumes of appreciation and frustration at once. "Like you... sometimes."

Dean was shaking his head in disappointment. "I DO NOT obsess over you." He saw how Sam's gaze flipped back and forth to him, caught between eye rolling and wonder. "Okay... so maybe I'm a little high handed about wanting you safe. Is that a crime?"

"No, Dean, but at the expense of your own life..." Sam shook his head to decline, his head bent. "... that's where I draw the line."

"It IS my life. I can do what I want, even if you don't like it or find yourself disagreeing with me, which is all the time. But you can't stop me from caring about whether you live or die."

"I'm not asking you to stop caring or watching my back. Just..."

"... don't smother." Dean saluted toward Sam, sniffling air out of his nostrils in a huff. "Yeah. Got it. Thanks, Dr. Phil."

"Dean... you haven't even begun to smother enough for me to be remotely annoyed. Not as bad as Dad. What I was going to say was... don't shut me out. I'm a Big Boy now."

Dean groaned, stepping back outside the car. He stood to grab his jacket and the hotel pillow he snagged. "You're still younger than me and... I promised Dad..." He started talking to Sam over the roof of the Impala, how they usually did some days.

"Please..." Sam let out a light spurt of chuckling. "... you've been this way long before Dad's solemn vow upon his death."

"Hey! Things became a little more concrete for me, is all." Dean roughly put on his jacket, then threw the pillow inside.

"But your purpose in life is NOT to guard me forever." Sam stretched his arms over the roof's surface, talking with his hands again. "What if... what if Jess had never died?"

"You mean... you being in time to play I'm-a-Superhero, College Frat Boy?"

"Dean... you have a life, too. You can have what I had, if you wanted."

"Correction. I HAD a life and then I got placed somewhere I never wanted to be. This is who I am now. I've come to grips with that. I'm not knockin' it, just sayin'... it's not all fun and games here. I lost Mom... now Dad... and I ain't losing you, too. If they take you... I'm coming after them and kickin' some Evil badasses. If they kill you, I'm doing everything and anything I can to make sure you don't end up where you don't belong. If that happens to end my life, in the process... so be it." Dean was angry at the circumstances, NOT Sam. Never Sammy. He climbed back into the car, slamming the door shut.

Sam grumbled, wishing he could battle with Dean like he'd done with Dad. Verbal sparring, but Dean would always... trump him. It was those eyes. His eyes held some kind of guilt, like he was to blame for Sam being this way. Dean Winchester walked as if a heavy weight held him down or stepped on his chest to stop him from breathing. Sam climbed into the backseat, too, keeping the door open. He and Dean were seated shoulder to shoulder, eyes on one another. "I don't need a bodyguard, Dean."

"Of course not." Dean sniffed and smirked. "I'm far more handsome, younger and debonair than Kevin Costner."

Sam talked on as if he hadn't heard Dean's comment. "But it makes me wonder..."

"It's okay. I'd choose YOU over Whitney Houston every time. But... if it comes to singing... I'm sorry..." Dean was shaking his head as he looked over at Sam, who's eyes squinted and face looked pinched with annoyance. "What?"

"Nothing." Sam closed his eyes, wondering why he tolerated Dean's silliness. "Just thinkin'... if you're all the time protecting me... who watches over you?" He sent out a wane smile, then slid out  and shut the door. He moved the trash can back onto the sidewalk.

Dean was silent and stunned. Good Ole Sammy, great for a heartbreak or two. When they were kids, Sammy had it in spades with his wide, innocent eyes and fidgety form. His constant inquiry into nothing that pertained to him and his penchant for getting into messes Dean would take the blame for. Only because Dean knew... he knew Sammy was special. Mary Winchester had told him so and Dean believed everything out of his mother's mouth. At 4, he was told he was the "man" of the house, whenever John Winchester couldn't be around. Now more than ever, the title couldn't be more true.

Dean moved to stretch out in the backseat, using the pillow to rest his head on. The Impala was a classic beauty, but she lacked comfort for long trips. As kids, the car sufficed. Sammy curling up into Dean's lap in the front seat, sometimes the back. Dean would eventually drift off, sleeping a few minutes at a time, like someone kept whispering in his ear to hold Sammy closer, not to let go. Ever.

Now, as adults, the Winchester Boys had outgrown the ability to sleep properly in the car, but nothing and no one would tear them from the Impala. She was as much a part of their family as any sibling would be. In fact, it could very well have been John Winchester's FIRST love, before his wife, Mary. Really anybody's guess.

Sam climbed behind the wheel, wide grin on his face. "I found some old cassettes."

"More tapes?" Dean wasn't impressed, but worried. "Nah, dude... my entire collection is down there, in that box."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, holding back laughter. "Then these must have fallen through the cushions." He knew Dean had probably found them, freaked out and then chucked them over his shoulder, hoping they'd disintegrate. He popped one of the tapes in, unable to NOT stop smiling and snortling some chuckles, hiding them by coughing. Dean was going to have a conniption, if not go completely ballistic.

Sam HAD won the bet, last night, fair and square. First dibs on music choice.

Separate Ways by Journey was cranked up to 11.

Dean stared in dumbstruck horror as he watched his dear, sweet baby brother turn on him, "rockin' out" to Steve Perry's nauseatingly wretched lyrics. Sam was basically copying, action for action, the entire music video... complete with synthesized keyboards on the Impala's sun visor.

~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~

 **_"Some Day Love Will Find You,_ **

**_Break Those Chains That Bind You,_ **

**_You Know I Still Love You,_ **

**_How We Touched And Went Our Separate Ways..."_**              

~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~

Dean leaned back, staring in utter awe at Sam. "You... ARE made of the Devil!!"

"Huh!?" Sam cupped his hand around his ear. "Can't hear you!" He was throwing "fist-pumps" in the air to stress every heartbreaking lyric. **_"Front seat gets first choice, back seat has no voice."_**

"What?! Did you JUST come up with that? Lame." Dean sat forward, tightly gripping the back of the front bench seat. His fingers squeezed the black leather in fear of bad soft rock. "Oh... you have such a man-crush on Steve Perry... it's not even funny."

"You're jealous because MY rock has better hair representation."

"Better hair? May I remind you of the Bon Jovi-Fro, Sammy?"

Sam would give Dean that observation. "Tommy Lee? Motley Crue? Headband? AND Kohl eyeliner, possibly tapping into his girlfriend's make-up kit."

"Awwww-ha! It's on, buddy! Mike Reno? Loverboy? Headband, ALSO! And so tight-I-can-see-your-package leather/pleather pants... working the whole Breakfast Club/Emilio Estevez vibe..."

"Alice Cooper? Hey... the name ALICE? AND... a very bad imitation of a sadistic MIME! Plus, the violations of PETA protocol, every night, on stage."

"None of that was ever proven. Half the concert goers were stoned or drunk. Step off The Alice, man. YOUR rock wishes it had the kick-ass mine did."

Sam simply turned up Journey even louder, if possible to drown out Dean's grumbling. "I can't hear you." He hoped this mixed tape had A LOT of lite, whiney rock to piss Dean off. If Dean got miffed, Sam knew his brother was still there.

Dean sat back in a huff, grabbing the pillow and stuffing the plushness over his face as he growled his indifference to what he termed Vomit Rock.

~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&~

Breakfast was pretty usual. Dean didn't go catatonic once, nor did he lose sensations in his legs or arms. He thought he'd gotten a reprieve, maybe. Whatever was attempting to use him must sleep during the day.

Sam was in the beginning of recalling a Jess memory, sharing the anecdotal story, when Dean feigned the smile. He was in the middle of digging into his Cowboy Rancher's Special platter when the sound of Sam's voice drifted off. Sam knew once Dean got into eating to never get deeply immersed in wallowing in anything that might require him to react emotionally. He was enjoying his food too much. Double of everything, adding a slab of inch thick ham. Dean had worked on every item separately, then would move onto the next. He was on his final item, blueberry pancakes, when he was progressing toward the ham slice.

He glanced up and found that Sam wasn't alone on his side of the booth.

Dean stopped mid-chew, licking his fingers of stickiness, almost choking on his bite of syrup-y pancake. He quickly washed the cooked batter down with the fresh cup of coffee he had.

John Winchester sat on Sam's left, close to the window. Mary Winchester sat on the end. Poor Sammy was oblivious to his parents being right next to him. So close he could touch them. But it was also a good thing. Because neither of these visions... or apparitions were the real deal. They looked like John and Mary, but their attitudes lacked believability.

Dean set his fork down calmly, picking up his napkin to wipe at his mouth. He did the appropriate nodding and smiling to make Sam think he was paying attention. He attempted to keep his eyes on Sam, but it was proving difficult. John and Mary were both talking at the same time, overpowering Sam. John was complaining why he kept having to look "like" the Elder Winchester and Mary wasn't quite sure Dean would listen to her since most of the other girlish images in his fragile mind fell hard on the slutty side.

Dean figured this to simply be a trick to throw him off. How could two images appear to him at once? Maybe The Demon wanted him to freak the hell out. Dean was only interested to know why they were BOTH here and looking exactly like his deceased parents.

"Dean?" Sam was taking a sip of his orange juice when he noticed Dean's eyes go zig-zag, like there was something behind him or beside him. He put his hands on the leather bench and only felt a chill, nothing remarkable. Not even a scent or a sound came to him to make him aware of anything wonky going on. Just Dean looking pummeled.

"Mmmm-huh?" Dean shook his head, focusing on Sam in the center. Since he knew his brother was real, it became easier to pay attention.

"Is something wrong?" Sam frowned, wondering if Dean might be experiencing something to do with the tattoo. Instinctively, his hand went across the table to barely touch finger tips to Dean's hand on the table's surface.

Dean flinched, taking his hand back. "No. Why?" He tried to grin easily, but his face twitched. "Why would you ask?" His eyes couldn't stop turning the size of saucers.

"Pardon the overused phrase in our line of work, but you look like you've seen a ghost."

"I think I ate too much."

Sam couldn't have agreed more, but that wasn't what spooked Dean. "Is that even possible for you?"

"Been known to happen." Dean cleared his throat, throwing his napkin down by his plate, then rising. "Excuse me. Gotta make pit stop in the Little Boy's room."

Sam recalled plenty of times Dean played tricks on him. "You're not trying to stiff me with the check, are you?"

Dean nodded his head in understanding. Sam had proof that would happen on occasion, but not right now. He needed to walk this situation building into somewhere private. He pulled out his wallet and handed Sam two bills. "Keep the change. If I'm not back in five, wait outside in the Impala for me. I'll be... uhm, awhile, but I promise to return."

"Call me..." Sam made the "phone" gesture with his pinky and index finger to his ear. "... in case you happen to fall in."

"Har-Har." When Sam glanced down to take a bite from his plate, Dean subtly used his head to indicate for his Fake Parents to follow him. He followed the arrows to the men's room, thankful it was a single room, meant for only one patron. He could lock the door and no one else could come in. "Mind tellin' me..." Once the latch hooked into the frame, Dean leaned on the wood paneling. "... what the hell is going on?"

Mary Winchester, stood in her long flowing nightgown and loose blonde hair. Dean's last memory snapshot of her. "I came to warn you." Her eyes darted toward John.

John Winchester smirked, shaking his head and hefting up his jeans. The last memory Dean had of his father etched in his normal attire for demon hunting; jeans with a thick black leather belt, tucked in blue plaid shirt and suede vest. "And I... came to check up on you." He rubbed his palms together, crossing arms low on his chest.

Dean looked at Mary. "Warn me about what?"

"Whom?" Mary's head tilted toward John's direction.

"You supposed to be an angel?" Dean roughly asked, his chin jutting up in defiance.

Mary shook her head, smiling shyly and blinking. "You don't believe in them. Why would I create myself into something you don't even have faith in? I'm part of your subconscious, like when you day dream or dream in your sleep."

Dean clapped his hands once, together, then used the joining to point toward the visions before him. "Great. So you're NOT real." He turned to look at the person portraying his father. "And you?"

"Don't you recall anything from last night?"

"Vaguely..." Dean wrinkled his brow in thought, not sure what he did or didn't remember. All of it felt like a bad nightmare. Yet... the tattoo existed. "... but nothin' solid."

John smirked again, then let his arms dangle and cross low at his back. "Good."

"No. Wrong. Not good. I don't like you. I don't care what face you take when you make yourself known to me. I'm a little confused to exactly WHAT you're supposed to be. Demon? Grim Reaper? Warlock? Wizard? Hobbit?"

"Son..." John cleared his throat, fidgeting on his feet.

"NO! Don't... call me that. Ever. You are NOT my father. John Winchester is dead... or off in a Netherworld of hell and damnation. So... automatically, YOU cannot be real, either."

John quirked one eyebrow upward. "Does it really matter WHO I am when we come face to face?"

"Yes."

"I'm really quite harmless."

"You conjure yourself up in the middle of breakfast at a family diner off an Interstate highway in Lake Wyncomca, Michigan... isn't Hell bad enough?" Dean could see the eye twinkling, very unlike Dad's. As if there were secrets hidden, games to be played out for higher consequences. "You want Sammy." It wasn't really being asked, more, like, declared out loud.

John shrugged one shoulder. "No. **I** don't, but HE... does."

Dean furrowed his brow in perplexity as he began to think The Demon might, every once and awhile, try his hand at sending peon minions to kick he and Sammy in the ass. "HE? Who's HE?" Dean swallowed the lump of nerves in his throat. "The one who tried to snatch him before..."

No answer.

"The one who killed my mother..."

Complete silence, followed by the lowering of John's head. "Eh... in a sense."

"What reason do you have to contact me?"

"So you really don't recall anything of what happened last night?" John seemed particularly interested in that fact. As if he'd done the action a dozen times before and it never working out as planned.

"No. Why? Is it important?"

"Well... only one thing really."

"Which is?"

Mary slid in front of the John Winchester vision, blocking his stare. "Don't listen to him, Dean. The ONLY way he could ever get you to hear him and 'see' him was if a loved one had unfinished business with you. He chose your father."

Dean turned his head to the side, looking directly at Mary. "He could have chosen you."

Mary was shaking her head in disagreement. "No... a bit of a 'yes'. I'm not where he was conjuring spirits from. He has no use for me."

Dean was a little curious, only slightly. "Are you trying to tell me there IS a Heaven? And you ARE an angel?"

Mary didn't smile or frown, her face was blank. "Dean, if that's what will comfort you... what makes you understand why I came through..."

"So you're not really Mary Winchester?" Dean had to avert his head when the blonde head nodded. "To warn me... about what?"

"Don't believe a word he says."

"Why?"

"Because... he has ulterior motives. He'll lie to get what he wants from you. He wants Sam, but he thinks he's clever enough to get him by taking over you."

Dean didn't think that made much of a lick of sense. "Christ! Am I THAT much of a scarey individual?"

John walked around Mary, moving to lean against the wall, near the sink. He hooked his thumbs right at his belt buckle, behind the heavy metal. "Nah. I've never been one to take the easy road, mind you. I get too much enjoyment out of watching you humans slowly tortured." He rubbed slowly at his chin, stubble growing dark. His eyes burned a inner fire up and down Dean's frame, almost able to envision it succumbing to darkness and inner demons already implanted.

"You LIKE driving people bat shit crazy? What kind of a psychopath sicko are you?"

John snickered deeply, rolling his eyes. "What's the whole point of Evil... if there's no pleasure to have and to take...?"

"I still don't get this... reason you have for using me..."

"Because... you've never really existed Dean Winchester."

Dean was quiet and a little confused. "Wanna run that little jem by me again?"

John pushed off from the wall, starting to pace the tiled floor of the restroom. He moved to the mirror, above the sink, as if he could see his reflection and prettied up his features. "Your brother Sam... has untapped powers he hasn't honed. Ones he still doesn't know he contains. The premonitions and ability to move things... are just the tip of what he can do."

Dean pursed his lips in disgust, not sure he liked someone knowing more about Sam than he did. "Give me time. I'll figure this out with him."

John chuckled, shaking his head. He fiddled with his wedding band, then leaned a hip on the sink ledge. "That's where you're wrong. Why do you think they wanted them at six months old?" He cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. "Upon birth, his powers decreased. Would he be able to survive past a few months? Or succumb early? Eventually, at 6 months old they're still pure enough to be handled properly and their power... their energy curtail to a certain degree. The more they grow up... mature... the less susceptible they are to outside influence. Certainly if they have siblings or make friends as they age. Once of a specific age range, their powers return. One by one. It's really up to them what they do with what they have been given. If they utilize the power for their own purpose, depending on their environment, or for... what has been planned for them from the beginning."

Dean attempted to take all this in at once. This all did sound a little familiar to him. Maybe this is what had been told to him last night or something like it. "Great. Fan-tab-u-lous. Now... how 'bout explaining to me EXACTLY what you meant by me not existing."

Mary swallowed painfully, folding her hands in silent prayer. "Don't listen to him, Dean." She quietly begged, not able to look at Dean. She simply closed her eyes and bowed her head.

"The minute Sam was born, so were you."

"No. I was four years old..."

"... so you've been led to believe."

Dean looked over at Mary, who hadn't lifted her head once. "I have memories of my mother and I. Even of her bein' pregnant with Sammy. Feeling her belly... him kicking my hand..." He could almost feel them now, vibrating against his palm.

"Sam was wrong. You exist for one soul purpose, Dean Winchester. As guardian and protector of Sam. I can't vouch for what might happen to you once Sam is gone, out of your hands."

"And you know this... how?" Dean could feel the lump of fear clog his throat. He could barely swallow, not even able to speak for too long.

"Ask your mother." John averted only his eyes toward the vision of Mary Winchester.

Dean finally pushed off of the paneling, pacing toward John. "Why not kill me? Get it over with. Or better yet... kill Sam."

"Oooo... well, see... that's way too easy. There's no F-U-N in that scenario." John pressed his right thumb pad to his lips to keep from laughing outright. He rubbed the finger over the soft flesh, biting on the tip.

Dean squinted his eyes toward the man trying to "look" like John Winchester. He failed on every level. "You could be lieing."

"True... but where would THAT get me?" John threw up his hands, slapped them onto his thighs then tucked the fingertips in his front pockets.

"Get me weak and vulnerable around Sam. Take away my ability to protect him like I want. Make me think what's happening to me is real. Draw me from Sam's side... so many to choose from, but they all mean you want Sammy. In the end, it's all just smoke and mirrors."

"What's happening to you is very real, Dean Winchester. Even Sam saw the markings. Believe me or not... you'll eventually find out the truth."

"How come Sam never knows ANY of this stuff?"

"He's forgotten. The older he becomes the more he'll remember and he'll be who he was truly meant to be."

"What's the point if all you want is to kill him?"

"HE doesn't want Sam or any of the other children dead. You and your father were the ones considering killing Sam, should he... you know... become a Baddy Bad person."

Dean sniffled out a snicker, throwing his fists into his jacket pockets. "Ha... that's funny." He quickly made his smile dissolve, face serious and concerned. "If what you do say is true... is there any way to prove it?"

"Of course." John got up off the sink ledge and walked toward a wall. "Anything can be proven, if you look hard enough." And he stepped through the gray plaster and vanished.

Dean stood rock hard stiff, unable to move or breathe. WHAT... The Hell?! He moved to grab for the sink ledge, running the cool water. He needed to splash his face, make sure he was waking up or already awake.

Mary wandered over, standing by the sink, but not close to Dean. "Dean, please... I may not be your real mother, but there's memories here..." She cupped her gut, making it seem as if she was a figment from Dean's own mind. He wasn't able to look directly into her face. "You ARE real. You DO exist." She shook her head, a slight grin falling over her features. "You were born. I can even sense those images laying dormant."

"So why fabricate this whole idea?"

"Maybe you were right. If you aren't there to protect your brother, they can get to him. They can even make you almost..."

"... HATE HIM." Dean finished in a huff of air, reaching up to pull down a stretch of paper towel. "I could never..." He couldn't even say the word, much less feel the emotion in his heart.

Mary ventured closer, arms crossed behind her back. "They need you to think that you're nothing compared to Sam. Not worthy of Sam. Not anything... anybody without Sam. They need you to turn your back on him so they can take him when he's most vulnerable. Probably heartbroken over losing you."

"I still don't understand the charade of the spell or curse that seems to be more real than everything else?"

"Doesn't take a genius to know... you're too strong for them. There's something IN you that keeps you connected to Sam. Unable to let go. They need you weaker than you already are, Dean." Mary looked down at her slippered feet, unsure of what else she could say.

"Could they be right... uh, to a point?"

"That you exist because of Sam?"

Dean looked at Mary from the side of his eyes. He closed the lids to answer a "yes". "I'm real. I'm human. But is there even a possibility this whole thing was preplanned? Like..."

"... destiny?" Mary wanted to reach out and touch Dean's hunched shoulders, but knew her hand would go right through him. "Dean, tell me what you feel... in your heart, right now...?"

"My heart? Now?"

"Not your head."

"I really could care less what happens to me. At the end of whatever Evil... or this invisible HE... does with his Big, Diabolical World Dominance Plan... Sammy lives. No doubt about it."

 **"DEAN?!?!"** Sam was knocking on the locked door. "You okay?!?!"

Mary nodded then disintegrated into the wall, shattering into a million ionic particles.

Dean felt the slight breeze, nearly able to smell his Mom's perfume, her light hand creams she'd put on before bed and her visions sent him a feeling of such love he could sense his own energy kick up a notch or two. He cleared his throat, washing his hands to cover his tracks. "I'm good! I'll be out..."

 **~*~*~*~*~*~*~...TBC...~*~*~*~*~*~*~**


End file.
